Darkness
by Christian
Summary: A Night in the unlife of Christian DuLac, a 200-odd year old Brujah in New York. Please R&R.


As he sat there in the dank bar, he knew that this city was trouble. Crime had tripled in recent years and walking down the streets, prostitution seemed to follow. His cold blue eyes swept the dimly lit bar, washing over the many poorly dressed and unkempt patrons. He downed the rest of his beer, the bitter taste sliding down his throat. He winced, wondering how long that bottle had been out of the fridge, as a scantily clad woman pulled up to him, sliding her hand up the leg of his torn jeans.  
  
"Heya..wanna date?" the woman asked, chewing gently on a stick of gum, her eyes flashing over the bulging wallet in his pocket. He politely stood up, and brushed her away, heading for the door. "Dick..coulda just said no.." Then the woman moved on, continuing to look for some other poor sap to scam.  
  
As he wandered out of the bar, and onto the windswept streets, he saw humanity at its worst. Just in his eyesight was an armed robbery, and a badly beaten drunk lying on the sidewalk. As he walked by, he dropped some change next to the poor derelict, his assortment of weapons neatly concealed under his flowing black leather trenchcoat. Rather heavily armed, he was one of the city's many undead citizens, a stalker of the night, a vampire. His true nature was disguised by his features, which hadn't yet begun to become overly pale. He was over two hundred and fifty, and showed no signs of stopping yet. He kept moving along the street, not making eye contact with any of the dealers or whores, keeping to himself, as he always had.  
  
A harsh scream eminatated from a nearby alley, and despite his mental objections, he decided to check it out. He turned swiftly around the corner, his trenchcoat fluttering around his feet, giving him the look of a gothic super hero. What he saw disturbed him, and sent a chill down his spine. Four men, dressed in dark clothing, and black ski masks, had beaten down some poor woman and were beginning to close in on her, menacing chuckles escaping them. He walked up to the group, who stopped, and turned to face him. Three drew switchblades, while the fourth, obviously the leader from his cocky stance, drew a gleaming black revolver. They all grinned menacingly, thinking that they could kill and rob this poor sap, and still get back to the girl.  
  
"Ooooh...big man gonna fight all of us? I doubt it. Just give us your money and leave, and we won't kill you." The man chuckled, his cronies following suit, one of them giving a look at the female, grinning menacingly.  
  
Then, he struck, his movement a mere blur as he rushed forward, unleashing a snap kick at the man closest to him, his knife spinning quietly in the air. The next nearest leapt towards him, a flash of steel cutting into the leather trenchcoat. With that, the vampire gave the man a wicked elbow at the base of the skull, his superhuman strength easily enough to drop the man to the ground, putting him out of the fight. The other two men backed off, the man with the knife picking up the girl, hauling her to her feet, and pressing the knife blade against her throat.  
  
"Stop, or I kill her man..I really will!" The man's panicked eyes informed him that he would indeed kill the girl, and the man with the gun had levelled the barrel of the revolver at him, he realized he needed a plan and fast. His eyes dropped slightly, looking down towards the part of his trench coat where he hid his twin Colt .45s. A rasp of metal on leather, and the two guns were drawn, one in each hand, the moonlight giving them a glowing aura. The gun in his right hand spoke once, a loud thunderclap echoing through the alleyway. The man holding the girl fell backwards, a bullet having pierced his left eye and entered his brain.  
  
The girl took this time to cower behind some garbage cans, as the revolver belonging to the last gangbanger opened fire, as the man emptied his entire six round clip into the body of the woman's defender. The bullets drove deep into the brave soul, causing him to wince in pain, and fall lifelessly to the ground. His body lay limp, blood cascading from the bullet holes, as he seemed to pass on into another life. The blood slowly halted, and the man smiled, looking at the woman, malice in his eyes and adrenaline in his veins.  
  
"Now, where were we?" He grabbed the girl, holding her in place as he reached down to tear her dress. The dress ripped along the seam, and the girl panicked, struggling against her final adversary. She didn't wait too long. Soundlessly, her fallen ally rose to his feet, and with stealth that belied his large form, appeared behind the man, and shifted his weight, his hands moving in a mere whisper. A loud crack erupted from the man's neck, and he fell to the floor lifeless.  
  
The vampire looked down at this wounds, which were already healing with the aid of his undead blood. His face contorted into a wry smile as he placed the two guns back in the holsters. With that, he approached the woman, his eyes playing over her ripped clothing and her frightened features. He extended a large hand down to her, his rather large six foot four inch frame making him a rather imposing figure indeed. The woman grabbed his hand, and pulled herself up. She spoke in a whisper, her voice soft and melodic.  
  
"T-t-thank you sir. I owe you my life. How can I possibly repay you?"  
  
The man spoke, his voice equally quiet, and borne of a New York accent. "Don't worry about it. Just get home, and be more careful around the streets."  
  
The woman nodded, and turned, rushing to the mouth of the alleyway, entering the street, flooded by a nearby lamp. There she stopped, and turned, facing the dark man once again. "Can I at least know the name of the man who saved my life?" she asked.  
  
He turned away, his voice a whisper on the gust of wind that passed through the alley. "Call me Christian." Christian returned to his apartment, if you could call it that. He slid his key into the lock, and turned it, the door sliding open with a creak. His eyes glanced around the dingy flat, which he entered, the door closing behind him. He turned briefly enough to lock the door, before he slid off his jacket, falling to rest on the ratty couch before him.  
  
"God damn. I'm so weak! How can I possibly keep up this 'unlife' that I was shoved into! This is total shit!" He muttered quietly to himself, hatred and anger gripping his soul, clamping hard on the remaining thing that could possibly resemble humanity. He drove his fist hard into a pillow, and with no surprise to himself, his fist slid through it and tossed the fluffy innards into the air. He sat a moment, watching the fluff drift through the air, before hitting the ground soundlessly. A quiet sigh gripped him, and he stood, removing his trenchcoat and his weapons. His Colt .45s he tossed on the table beside him, and his double barrel sawed off shotgun he threw into the main hall closet, along with a collection of spent shells.  
  
Chris looked around his flat, wishing he had a position in society that was worth having. Maybe he could be the Prince some day, or at least Sheriff. He doubted he would ever get anywhere, and that he was doomed to serve his unlife forever residing in dingy bars, and stopping street punks.  
  
He returned to the couch, falling back onto it, hearing it squeak annoyingly from its old springs. He grumbled to himself, before closing his eyes and letting his mind wander. He returned to when he could still see the sun, and spending time with his family and friends. Summer days at his family's house in rural New York state, cold winters next to the fireplace as a child. He could do none of this anymore, and all he had known then was long dead, his family passed on, and his old house gutted by a fire way back.  
  
His eyes began to drift over the balcony of the place, looking down at the wall, watching the leaves of green ivy trailing up towards him. He began to feel the inevitability of his death, and how often he had caused it for others. Over his nearly two hundred and fifty years, he had brought death to countless thousands, through feeding, or just plain murder. He was a leech in the jungle of humanity, and it did nothing but eat him up inside. With that thought in mind, he sauntered towards his bedroom, which was fully blocked off from the sun. He dropped to his mattress, and fell almost instantly into a dreamless sleep.  
  
Chris awoke the next evening, and began his usual ritual to begin the night. He left his bed, and crawled into his shower, the hot spray invigorating him, and clearing the fog from his mind. After suitably cleaning himself up, he got dressed, choosing from his closet his usual type of clothing, jeans and a muscle shirt, which he covered with a waist- length leather jacket. He quickly snapped on his usual armaments, this time adding a wicked bowie knife to his belt, in case he felt like a little hand to hand combat. Doing a quick check of his surroundings, he then stalked from his apartment, heading down the dingy streets. He saw the crime and fear that signified the coming of night in the city, spotting as usual a petty crime here, or a hooker there. He sighed, a useless gesture as he didn't breathe, but a habit that he picked up to combat the loneliness in his heart.  
  
Drifting down the darkened alleys like a wraith, he soon covered his usual haunts in a matter of a mere hour, checking in with the occasional informant on vampiric affairs, or just stopping by at the corner store for a pack of cigarettes. He then began his hunt for the first meal of the night.  
  
As he leaned against a firm brick wall, his ice cold eyes drifted down the streets and towards the many figures that resided there. Drug dealers, hookers, or just petty thieves were all around him, which brought another sigh to his lips. Lighting up a cigarette with a smile, he flinched instinctively away from the flame, like most vampires he suffered from an innate fear of fire. A cloud of smoke soon formed a cloying aura around him, as another street walker approached him. He knew then, that his plan had succeeded as usual.  
  
He was approached then by another hooker, a pretty Asian girl who was wearing entirely too much makeup. She looked to be about 19, and was very attractive. Her eyes were a perfect hazel, and her hair a brown so dark it looked black. She sauntered up to him, striding seductively, her hips moving to a beat that was unheard. She smiled up at him, flashing elegant white teeth. Her left hand snaked out, and slowly wandered down Christian's chest.  
  
"Wanna go somewhere a little more quiet?" she asked, looking up at him with expectant eyes.  
  
He smiled slightly, exhaling a breath of smoke into the air next to her head. "Sure, I don't see why not. Let's go."  
  
He reached out and took her arm, and began to drag her down towards a darkened alleyway. She walked a bit ahead of him for a moment, already reaching for the clasp of her bra. He smiled softly, and with little to no effort at all, grabbed the girl by her neck, and lifted her up against the wall. She looked down at him with slight surprise, but other then that no shock at all.  
  
"Oh.so you like it rough do ya? I think I can work with that." She slid the bra off her shoulders, and exposed her bare breasts to him. Christian grinned charmingly, and dove for her neck.  
  
As his fangs sunk into the soft flesh of her neck, a spurt of blood traced its way down his throat, a warm sensation filling him. The woman writhed against the wall, as if in ecstasy, a moan escaping her parted lips. Her writhing began to slow however, as more of her life's blood escaped the wound in her neck. She gasped again, and fell unconscious, her head lolling to the side. Christian removed his fangs, and wiped the blood from his mouth with a sleeve. He placed the girl gently on the ground, and did her top back up, and dropped a fifty dollar bill on top of her, concealing her in the shadows as he left.  
  
Christian began to wander down the street once again, heading down the left sidewalk, his imposing demeanor cowing those who sought to get in his way. Continuing unmolested, he reached an intersection, near the Bronx, and as he looked up to get his bearings, he found the street signs so marked with dirt and rust that he could not make out the letters. A feral growl escaped him, even as his cellular phone rang. He picked up, with his usual witty line.  
  
"Chris' morgue, you stab 'em, we slab 'em."  
  
The voice on the other end of the line chuckled slightly, and began to speak, a voice easily recognizable as the city's Sheriff, John Nash.  
  
"Hey Chris, how you holding up?"  
  
"Not bad, could be better. Just hooked up with breakfast in an alley. What you need?"  
  
"A hit. Some mortal dealer is causing big problems near the business district where the boss works. His operations are interfering with someone's, and it seems to have the Prince irked. He wants you to finish it, quick and clean." There was a tone in John's voice, as he remembered full well that Chris never finished things cleanly.  
  
"I'll do what I can John, but I might just leave a mess. You just work your magic with the cops, and make it look like a gang war is what busted them bastards up. Once you do that, everything'll be just fine. Just wondering, what's coming my way for doing the Prince this favour?"  
  
"Seventy-five hundred dollars, in cash, delivered right to your doorstep. We're paying a little less this time, cause it's a small gang, maybe ten people max. So, can I tell the Boss that you'll do it?"  
  
"Sure thing Johnny, I'll take care of it now. Just point me in the right direction."  
  
Five minutes later Christian was wandering down the street, directions in hand, a grin on his usually dour face. Seventy-five hundred.not bad. Certainly not bad for a hit of this size. Usually this'd cost about five grand, but it seems that the Prince was having some serious trouble with them. Well, all the better for him.  
  
He continued on his journey, noticing that he was hitting the bad parts of town. Well, since all the town wasn't that great, he was hitting the worst parts of town. The Bronx made Manhattan look like a pleasure resort, and this is where he needed to be. He flexed his preternatural muscles beneath his jacket, enjoying the feeling of adrenaline that had begun to course through him. This was going to be fun. He turned into a side street and continued down a dank alleyway. A rat bustled by his feet as it scavenged for its dinner, and a muffled shout was heard in another alley nearby. Home sweet home. Christian turned slowly, and stopped, looking at a thickly spray painted door, about five inches thick. He raised a hand, and knocked, gently rapping three times against it. He wasn't disappointed.  
  
A slide in the door opened up, revealing the eyes of a man. They were deep brown, and they eyed him suspiciously. "Yeah, whattya want?"  
  
"I want to talk with your boss. I have a business proposition for him."  
  
"What's the password?" The man's accent definitely proved that he was born and raised in this part of town.  
  
"I don't know, but believe me, it's important that the boss hears what I've been sent to tell him."  
  
The man uttered a string of generally derogatory curses to Christian, before slamming the slide shut without a second thought. "Well," Chris thought, "it's his fault, not mine."  
  
Chris reared back his arm, and grinned, knowing how much fun this would be. He slammed his fist into the door with all his supernatural strength, easily breaking through the wood, and grasping at the man behind the door. A curse was heard from the other side, before Christian pulled out his arm, the man shattering through the thick wooden door. He fell to the ground, dead. Christian muttered quietly, not liking how this might end. "Damn..I might have been just a bit too loud." To answer his comment, the sound of gunfire erupted from inside, blasting shards of wood out into the alleyway. Christian reached onto his back, and with a little flourish removed his double barrel sawed off shotgun, which gleamed matte black in the dim light. He stepped inside, preparing for the shot that could potentially end his unlife.  
  
As he stepped inside the crack house, a forty cal. round impacted his shoulder, a lucky shot made by one of the denizens there. With no sound to acknowledge the pain he felt, he continued inside, stroking the trigger of the shotgun. Having set up separate triggers for certain events, he pulled the single fire trigger, and watched as the right barrel exploded outwards, catching the poor sap that was rounding the corner right in the chest. He flew backwards into the air, landing firmly on a makeshift pool table, bleeding from the gaping hole in his chest. Another two men rounded the corner, and Chris fired again, catching the second man in the gut. He doubled over and collapsed to the ground, the other man began to fire a Glock 17 in Chris' direction. Chris doubled back, hiding behind a wall and reloading his shotgun, almost oblivious to the sounds of bullets impacting the wood near his head.  
  
He snapped the shotgun closed, and turned around the corner again, the man beginning to fire once again with redoubled efforts, two nine millimetre rounds boring into the left side of his chest. A wheeze of pain escaped Chris then, but his vampiric body had already begun the healing process. The shotgun levelled at the shooter then, and with a graceful tap of a trigger, both shotgun barrels launched their deadly blasts at the man, who flew farther then even the first man. He landed against a wall, and slid down, a grim parody of what happened to Christian the previous night. The shotgun was then slid beneath his large jacket, onto his back where it came from. His hands reached down to his hips, and drew the two Colt .45s that existed there, raising them up to encounter any other adversary that might soon arrive. None did.  
  
Christian began to move once more, slinking around corners, ignoring the carnage that he himself had just unleashed on the residents of the house. His eyes gleamed in the near darkness, and after a few minutes of careful searching, only one door was still unchecked. It was large, metal, and heavily reinforced. It took Christian three kicks to knock it down. He peered inside, and found a man frantically shoving money into a large black satchel, in his hand a gleaming SIG P226. The man turned slowly, and saw Chris, amazed that one man could do this to his door. Chris smiled, and waited, knowing that his job was nearly complete. The man was sweating profusely, and his stench forced Christian's nose to crinkle in distaste. Chris raised the weapons, and waited, debating his job and the extent that he must fulfill it to. The man fell to his knees, weeping.  
  
"Please, don't kill me, just let me go, and I won't ever come back, please let me live!"  
  
Christian blinked slowly, not really prepared for this. Every other person that he had ever cornered had tried to bribe him, or just shoot him dead. No one had ever begged for mercy right off the bat. Christian nodded slowly, and took a step forward, taking the large satchel of money, and the gun that dropped from the quivering man's hand.  
  
"Now..get the hell out of my city!"  
  
The man quailed, and fled. Christian looked at the money, and the gun. The gun he'd give to Nash the next time he saw him, maybe one of his buddies would like it. The money though, that he'd keep for himself. Taking a swift estimate, it seemed to be close to fifty thousand dollars. Not a bad haul. Maybe it had been a good night after all. 


End file.
